He has a younger sister who lives in Culver City—not far from Santa Monica, where the second victim was found. Which means nothing. Fiona has a sister who lives north of Seattle, near Snohomish—is she a suspect now?
Any number of people have connections to friends and relatives in either area, including myself. Hell, one of my good friends from my younger elementary years lives in Seattle.
Jeremy K. Fisher has no Facebook account, but he’s on X and Instagram. On X, he mainly reposts stuff fromRolling Stoneor links from fellow writers. He’s coy, low-key. His takes are sharp, short, and to the point.
One post:Left, right ... The division politicians have sown is in their interests, not yours. Meanwhile, they and the big business they’re associated with are laughing all the way to the bank.
The thread following that post goes on with bickering about the state of neoliberalism, free speech on social media platforms, and censorship. Jeremy Fisher replies to none of the follow-ups.
One of Jeremy’s other posts reads that he’d like to be in sync with the National Resources Defense Council but that they’ve abandoned their mission, which leads to more squabbling about global warming, the oil industry, and a post comparing Jeremy’s face to cat vomit.
On Instagram, very few selfies or photos of him at all—only shots from his travels. I use an app to set up a phony number so he can’t tracethe call back to me and use SpyDialer.com to bypass the ringing on Jeremy’s phone and go straight to his voicemail.
Hey, this is Jeremy Fisher withRolling Stone. Leave me a message and I’ll get back to ya.
That cinches it. At least, a little. My radar is still up. Way up. I hope he’s not lying. His message is generic enough, but his voice is as smooth as whiskey, and it sends the strangest opposing sensation down my spine: part warm tingle and part cold dread.
I brush the warm-tingle part away.Be smart, Cros. Ted Bundy was a charmer, too.
Chapter 19
I lie on the couch. I lie on the bed. I stand at the kitchen window where I just lost my cool. I sit on the front stoop in the chilly night, but I feel exposed. The stars say nothing. My thoughts tangle.
Wallace Scott, my ex.
The missing earrings.
The FBI . . .watching me.
A very dead and buried Mark Coleman.
Billy Railes, who no doubt long ago counted all the lucky stars in this universe and the one next to it and wondered why in that instant I sided with Team Blue instead of Team Female Rogue. I could have sold Railes out, but instead, I handed him the hall pass of his life.
And Detective Mitch Ewing. Does he know the truth?
My open investigations, especially into Robbie Ridgeway and Clarissa Haynes, all derailed.
And more than a few times I wonder what I missed, or what remains to be learned, about Jeremy K. Fisher.
I flash to Sophie. I see her slumped over her desk, her head in the crook of her arm. Her beautiful strawberry hair fanned out, touching a sticky, half-empty bottle of Jose Cuervo near the edge. I had walked into the room to check on her, thought she’d only fallen asleep over her homework. Or wanted to believe that, but the cold, knowing dread was already creeping in. As I went to nudge her awake, I found her body had already begun to stiffen.
I wipe the image away, but it’s only replaced by Jess. Jess, traumatized and a shell of her former self.
Then Leon. God, Leon. The pain clutches my chest, then rises to my throat and clenches it like there’s no tomorrow.
It forces me up, so I leave the front stoop and go to my kitchen table, my thoughts stirring through all these players like a wooden spoon in a rancid stew. The pressure of knowing I only have less than four full days is not going to allow any sleep, no matter how exhausted I am.
There’s a loose thread I’m not seeing. It’s all a tangled mess.
The question is pretty simple. Where should I focus my fear?
I decide to get organized. I think of the crazy murder boards we’ve all seen on television and the murder books used to compile evidence that I learned about when studying for my homicide detective’s license while still on patrol. I need an about-to-be-murdered manual. And I’m the one in the crosshairs.
Instead, I find blank sheets of paper in my office, take them to the kitchen table with a couple of inches of whiskey in a cheap glass tumbler, and start writing shit down. Every note I deem worthy earns me one sip.
The CA stuff makes me circle back to my short-lived, so-called cop career.
Did it even last long enough to call it a career? In the eyes of the old guard,no way. I was a washout. A dud. A loser. Someone whose tumultuous stint in uniform would be quickly forgotten by all except for the slimeball Billy Railes.
